


Drift

by AllTheHats



Category: Brave Frontier
Genre: Gen, M/M, but I mean everyone is dead in this game already anyway so, the character death is both brief and canon, you already knew that I'm sure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-19 23:25:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4764911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheHats/pseuds/AllTheHats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Brave Frontier fics that I never finished, but that I like enough to want not to leave to rot on my hard drive for all eternity.</p><blockquote>
  <p>“Are you human?” they ask. (Are you a <em>traitor</em>?) But there is nothing you can give that will satisfy them, so instead you smile and give them nothing.<br/></p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sometimes (Karl-centric)

Sometimes, when people think you can’t hear, they – well. They _talk_.  
  
Every once in a while, the particularly brave – or particularly curious – will approach you. “Are you human?” they ask. (Are you a _traitor_?) But there is nothing you can give that will satisfy them, so instead you smile and give them nothing. The whispers, the furtive glances and suspicious stares – they follow you always. It’s _unfair_ , you think, that they should be so common and yet still hurt so much. It’s not like you don’t _know._ You’ve felt it, the staccato one-two hum of frost in your veins and winter gnawing at your heart. But it’s easier if you pretend. It’s the mentality of a child: if I don’t see it, it can’t see me. But you play at it nonetheless.  
  
_It takes a village to raise a child, or so you’ve been told. At the age of 7, this village –_ your _village – is the whole world. The farmer’s wife gives you the parts of the harvest they can’t sell – stuff that’s overripe, or too small to fetch a good price. The tailor gives you clothes in exchange for work, and the jeweler gives you coin for the pretty stones you find at the bottom of the river. It does not strike you as strange, that you do not have a father and a mother, only a cold empty house and an old man who is never home. This village is the whole world, and the world is small. There are no other children here, and you assume that this is just the way things are. You do not_ wonder.  
  
Your oldest, dearest friend – bless his heart – worries for you. You see him bristle, when he walks besides you and some careless person makes an offhanded remark. Always, he says nothing, but his glance says all the things he does not – are you fine with this? (Are you fine with the way you are?) Always, you tell him (yourself) it does not hurt. _It does not_. A mantra repeated a hundred, a thousand times.  
  
(If you lie enough, you’ll surely begin to believe it as well.)  
  
_He was 6 and you were 11, and the river water sparkled in the idyllic noon light. Still you do not wonder. But as you turn to speak, you see a demon burst forth from the water’s depths, jaws open wide – to bite, to rend – and you do not think, you just_. _(No, not like this.) The river comes to life around you, ice screaming through flesh and bone. Your friend is splashing away from the monster (dying, dying, dead – that could’ve been him), over to you. “Karl!” he shouts, and again, louder,_ “Karl!” _and you can feel his hands (burning hot) on your arm (or maybe you’re just cold), pulling you towards the shore, but has he always been so far away? Has the river always been so_ close _? (There is a roaring in your ears.) “_ Karl.” _He says again, low, desperate, and you blink and the feeling is lost, swept away in the current. The river is just a river after all. Your friend laughs, would-be lighthearted. You crack a smile too, but don’t manage to muster a reply. Talking seems like too momentous a trial, when you are suddenly filled with such a sense of loss. Back at the village, your friend regales the adults with a grossly exaggerated tale of your heroics. To your face, they say, “magician” and “gifted”. (At your back, they whisper, “demon” and “god-child”.)_


	2. Plausible Deniability (Kuda/Atro)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atro, Kuda, and all the words that never pass between them. (Or: Atro can’t tell whether Kuda’s trying to kill him or get in his pants, and quite frankly isn’t sure which option is the more daunting of the two.)

Atro knew, of course, how it was done. But, between the quiet monastery upbringing and humanity’s falling out with the gods, there had never been time to…ah… _well._ “Impropriety,” he muttered, “thy name be Kuda.” Then, louder, “I thought you were trying to kill me.”

“Yeah, that too.”

“…Does this _turn you on?”_   Atro exclaims in disbelief, tone slightly incredulous and highly scandalized. When, in lieu of a reply, the assassin merely raises his eyebrows suggestively, Atro feels perfectly justified in aiming his next kick at Kuda’s groin.

\-------------

Urias breaks, and Atro thinks of Kuda, of a sharp blade on the edge of his throat, and he thinks, _Perhaps I will let him, this time_. But Kuda does not come. He _does not come,_ and this thought weighs in Atro’s mind, heavy as Urias’s broken form in his palms.  
  
(When Urias blazes to life once more, brilliant as dawn after the longest of nights, with the revelation that power is meant to protect and never to harm, Kuda’s attempts on Atro‘s life begin anew, strangely prompt.)

\-------------  
  
“Working hard, are you?” a voice purrs practically _in his ear,_ and with a speed he was not aware he possessed, Atro spins around, deflecting the sharp edge of a dagger aimed at his heart. Atro’s quarters are small, and there is no room to draw Urias – but so too does the space limit Kuda, his customary whip much too lengthy to be of any use. In the ensuing skirmish, Atro, though forced on the defensive, is keenly aware that he has the advantage of familiarity with the terrain, and – there. Kuda trips briefly on the old board that sticks out from the floor (Atro will fix that board someday. Eventually. He _swears_ it). Atro pounces, slamming the assassin to the floor and sending the dagger skittering away. “ _Oh.”_ Kuda breathes, winded, “You should’ve told me you liked it rough.” And then, because the man _has no shame,_ he _fondles Atro’s ass._ The swordsman does not scream. But in his embarrassed shock, he is a moment too slow to stop Kuda from slipping from his hold. As Kuda escapes out the window, Atro throws his heaviest text at the back of Kuda’s stupid head. He misses (of course), and he doesn’t have to see Kuda’s face to _see_ the smug look on it. If Atro were a lesser man, he would bury his face in a pillow and scream. But he is not, so he settles for entertaining thoughts of the assassin’s _unfortunate_ demise instead.  
  
After, when the sun has begun to dip below the far-off line of the horizon, Atro finds a slip of paper hidden in his robes. On it are the tentative movements of the god army for the next week or so, and Atro feels something like understanding weigh down his heart.

\-------------

“ _Fuck_.”  
  
A beat. Two. Then, a horrified wail, as Atro laments, “I _swore._ I’ve _never_ done that before!” he drops his face into his hands, inconsolable. Kuda, the heartless bastard, has the gall to look proud about that.

\--------------

Watching the familiar curve of Kuda’s back as he turns to leave, Atro _knows_ , suddenly, that this time will be the last. “Wait!” Unable to stop himself, he grabs Kuda’s hand in his own, halting him, and softly pleads, “Reconsider.” What, he does not say. (Your loyalty, your lies, your _blatant disregard for human life, your –)_ Kuda says nothing. It would be pointless, they both know, when they already know he will not. And when Kuda pulls away, fingers slipping through Atro’s, inevitable as the flow of time, Atro lets him.

\--------------  
  
When next they meet, Atro plunges Urias into Kuda’s chest, entirely inappropriate laughter attempting to bubble up within him, and, with his dying breath, whispers, “For the children.” And perhaps it is only wishful thinking that he hears someone reply, voice unmistakable in spite of the uncharacteristic weakness, “For the future.”  



	3. Drabbles 1 (Lance-centric)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It isn’t, of course, that Lance wants to die. He just doesn’t particularly care to live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve always been rather curious what kind of mindset you’d have to have to reply to “Hey yo, run away with me so I can slowly kill you and turn you into a tree.” With “Yeah, sure, that’s cool.”

What purpose? What reason is there, for the posturing, the hoarding, when all those whom draw breath must one day find themselves grinding to a halt, as the rusted gears of an antique clock? What purpose did life serve, then, but as a merry masquerade, stretching for the edge of the stars until the curtain must, inevitably, fall in the face of the endless, yawning maw of eternity? And in the face of these thoughts, he had realized, with a sudden clarity, that living was an entirely pointless endeavor.

 _What morbid thoughts you have, child._ Lance started, wholly unprepared for the voice ringing in his mind, but managed to keep his grip on the weapon. _Leave with me, and escape this meaningless existence._ The child blinked, and replied “What makes you any different?”

 _When you are gone,_ it had whispered, _I shall remain._ And Lance had been enchanted.

* * *

He had always been a quiet boy, but now, he found, he had no reason to speak. Drevas could hear his thoughts as clearly as his words, so what purpose did clumsy, spoken language serve? There was none, and so he did not.

* * *

He is not _talented_ , he is no prodigy, for if he were he would not have lost and lost and lost and

Lance turns and walks away, leaving the woman to call indignantly at his back. Drevas’s laughter echoes through his thoughts.

* * *

 Lance felt the incorporeal prodding that was Drevas attempting to catch his attention, and with a bit of a mental sigh, allowed himself to be stirred from slumber. _Hey_ , the demon had greeted him with, _you should push Vargas into the river._ …What? Mind addled with sleep, Lance sat and, gazing blearily at the swordsman’s back some steps away, considered. _Why?_ He’d finally asked, with no small amount of trepidation. The reply was immediate, and all in all about as reasonable as Lance had dared hope. _It’d be hilarious._ Which was to say, not reasonable in the slightest.

 _Drevas, that’s terrible._  
_Yes, but you’ll do it, won’t you?_  
_No._ And with that, Lance slammed his mental connection with the demon closed.

Then he stood and shoved Vargas into the river.


	4. Green Locust Blossoms (Karl/Summoner)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reincarnation AU feat. god!Karl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super, super unfinished. If you've read my other Karl stuff I'm certain you're already aware that my premise for Karl tends to run along the lines of "what if Karl's unexplained Mysterious Powers (tm) come from godly parentage" and from there I jumped to "Okay but what if Karl IS a god??" and then you get this. There are weird jumps because I don't write chronologically, and in the places where the jumps are most obvious I've included notes about what SHOULD be there.

(A/N: the Actual Beginning of this story, wherein the summoner gets lost/injured during a freak snowstorm and Karl rescues them, is not written.)  
  
There is a lake, massive and awe-inspiring in its great expanse. Karl’s touch skates across it, chill winds skirting the surface as a painter’s brush marks canvas, covering the water’s surface in swirling lace hearts born from frost. It’s the most embarrassingly sappy love letter you’ve ever received. You tell him as much. He just smiles that embarrassingly sappy smile, and when your heart warms in response, you realize that this is it. This is your life, now. Embarrassing, sappy romance with an embarrassing, sappy god. As he swings you into his arms, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips, gentle and exploratory, you reflect that this might not be such a terrible fate.

In your second life, you are born in a land that has never known summer. Legends tell of a frozen palace atop the mountains, in which the god of winter itself slumbers, awaiting the fulfillment of a promise made long ago. Once a year, the brave and the foolish make the long trek from the village to the summit in an attempt to wake the god, for so long as he sleeps the cold of winter shall always be the harsh and bitter chill of longing. Some curse the god – others, whatever fool has forsaken their promise to him. This year, you are the only one who wishes to make the journey. You are not sure if you truly believe that a god sleeps here, but, you think, if there is, he must be terribly lonely.   
  
In your third life, you are born into poverty. Starvation claims you before he finds you.  
  
In your fourth life, you are the son of a nobleman. He appears before you as you roam the gardens one night, all power and majesty. You do not believe Karl’s talk of past lives, but he follows you all the same, eager to please (and just as easy to please in return – a mere smile, a kind word in his direction). The courtiers give you questioning looks, at first, nervous glances darting to Karl, wondering what grand business a god has here, in a small kingdom on the edge of nowhere. (You laugh, to think that it is no business more important than to steal away your heart.) Still, it is not long before the people become accustomed to his presence, and how strange it is, you think, that to have a god wandering the halls is no longer a novelty. You are the third son, unimportant in all but name, but still you are faithful to your family, eager to serve – but only till the day you hear talk of marriage, your parents set to offer you to the highest bidder – to be auctioned off like cattle – and you firmly decide that you have had quite enough. You saddle up your horse, turn to your wayward god, and say, “Well? Aren’t you going to steal me away into the night?” Briefly, he appears startled. But then, he smiles, and does.  
  
(A/N: I planned to include a bunch more lives, but the most important are the ones leading up to the next bit, wherein tensions with the gods begin rising and then, eventually, the war starts. Blablabla stuff happens the summoner and Karl get attacked and killed.)  
  
The last thing you remember thinking is _ah, so gods bleed, too,_ before a fierce pain, quick and sharp, blooms across your chest, your vision beginning to fail you. And as darkness closes on you your last thought is that, this time, perhaps you'll find him.

Some nights, you do not dream. But others, you dream of frost, of ice and snow and a man whose blood runs cold. Always the memories of them vanish with the light of morning, and, like water, they slip away no matter how tight your hold. You are left feeling as if you have forgotten something important.  
  
The old man who lives on the edge of the village returns, one day, with a strange child. The child seems angry, and perhaps a little wary. The other children avoid him, and so you do too, though something in you rears up and demands your attention whenever he enters your vision.  
  
(A/N: summoner hesitantly befriends Karl)

His name is Karl, and never again does winter haunt your slumber.

Locust Flower (green)  
_Affection beyond the grave  
_

* * *

**A/N:** The following are my notes/outline for this story, since this is one of the rare few that I do, in fact, have an outline for.  
  


\- Long before the war of the gods back when humans still lived in Grand Gaia w/the gods the summoner gets caught in a freak snowstorm or something while crossing Karl's territory and Karl finds him and saves his life and then....the summoner becomes friends w/him so he starts to visit him....and they fall in love and Karl does horrible sappy things like draw hearts on the lake w/his ice powers wow

\- but humans have such short lives and it's terrible

\- Karl watches the summoner grow old until the summoner gets too old to make the journey out to see Karl so Karl goes to the human village sometimes and he pretends to be human but everyone and their dog can tell he's not but everybody just pretends b/c it's just Karl

\- and eventually the summoner passes away....but!! Karl resolves to find him again....

\- and from then on every time the summoner is reincarnated Karl always goes to find him!! And sometimes the summoner remembers and sometimes he doesn't but Karl loves him every time and the summoner always loves him back, even when he doesn't remember and it's sappy and cute and terrible

\- b/c Karl has to watch the summoner grow old and die every time, but the times when the summoner grows old are his favorite, b/c they have so much time together! Sometimes the summoner dies young, and those lives are the worst, when he's reminded how frail humans really are, when the summoner dies from war or poverty or illness

\- but then things with the gods start to get shaky....Sodis betrays the gods and tensions are high....but Karl & the summoner are sure it's fine....they'll get through this like they always get through everything if thousands of years and thousands of deaths can't tear them apart a bit of racism isn't going to hurt them!!

\- But as things get worse and rumors start to spread about the gods wanting to destroy humanity, things get worse...people give Karl LOOKS now, they're angry or scared or mistrustful and it starts to hurt him a little, to go to the human village to visit the summoner

\- so the summoner starts visiting Karl again, but things get even more tense, and after the war of the gods starts in earnest things reach a peak, with some of the villagers actually telling the summoner to kill Karl, b/c Karl would never expect that from him

\- the summoner is suitably horrified and runs away and he lives with Karl, and they can pretend that things are okay for a little while. But eventually the war reaches them anyway....and the humans are mad, b/c the summoner is human!! Why is he siding w/a god??? But the summoner won't back down so they fight him too

\- And they both die in that war....and the last thing the summoner thinks about is how scary it must be for a god to die, for an immortal creature to be faced with the possibility of the end.

\- Ofc the summoner is eventually reincarnated, and by the time he is, the war is over and the humans have moved to Elgaia...and he waits for Karl to find him again, because he always does, but Karl never comes

\- he goes through several lives, and some lives he remembers and some he doesn't, but whenever he does he wonders where Karl's gone. Eventually he decides that maybe Karl doesn't remember, or maybe Karl can't reach him. This isn't Grand Gaia after all, so he decides that this time, he'll go find Karl

\- and he searches for years and years and all these life times, but he never finds him.

\- Then!!! It happens!!! The gates to Grand Gaia are open again, and there are rumors about how one of the expedition teams find a baby in Grand Gaia!! And this is one of those lives where the summoner doesn't remember everything, but there are little fragments, memories of hearts drawn on a lake and a man with skin that's cold to the touch

\- but before the summoner can figure anything out he dies again, he's killed on an expedition...this time he's reborn fast, only a few years pass...

\- and this is one of those lives where he doesn't remember anything, but he has dreams, sometimes. Nothing concrete, just vague impressions, and it's like those times when you wake up and can't remember what you dreamed about, and the harder you think about it the further it slips away

\- but then!!! One of those guys from the Summoner's Hall moves into the village, and he has a kid with him, and apparently it's not his kid but he's taking care of him for a friend. The other kids spread rumors about the weird kid and nobody wants to talk to him, but the summoner makes friends with him and learns his name is Karl, and he never dreams about winter again.

\- the end


End file.
